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THE  GREAT  REFUSAL;  Being  Letters  of  a 
Dreamer  in  Gotham.  A  Romance  told  in  Let- 
ters and  Verses.     i6mo,  $i.oo. 

A  CENTURY  OF  INDIAN  EPIGRAMS.  Chiefly 
from  the  Sanskrit  of  Bhartrihari.    i6mo,  ^i.oo. 

THE  PROMETHEUS  BOUND  OF  >GSCHY- 
LUS.  Translated  into  English.  With  an  In- 
troduction.    i2mo,  75  cents. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
Boston  and  New  York. 


A  CENTURY  OF  INDIAN 
EPIGRAMS 

CHIEFLY   FROM    THE    SANSKRIT 

OF  BHARTRIHARI 

BY  PAUL  ELMER  MORE 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

(Cfte  fiibcrsiDe  IDrew,  Cambridge 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,    1898,  BY  PAUL  ELMER  MORE 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


G28r 

X5B4 


"  They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 

JVhen  me  they  Jiy^  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt ^ 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings." 


754854 


To  IRVING  BABBITT,  Esq. 

My  dear  Babbitt,  —  So  much  of  what  I 
have  learned  of  Oriental  things  and  have  thought 
about  them  is  associated  vi^ith  your  name,  that  it 
seems  now  only  natural  to  offer  you  this  little 
Oriental  book.  Let  it  serve  as  a  memorial  to  you 
of  our  life  together  in  Cambridge,  and  of  our  many 
peripatetic  discussions  regarding  matters  sacred 
and  profane,  —  peripatetic  I  call  them,  although, 
as  the  poet  says,  our  words  often  outnumbered 
our  steps  and  the  days  set  briefer  than  our  theme, 

Te  mihi  iucundas  efficiente  vias. 

The  life  of  the  ancient  Brahmins  was  an  unfail- 
ing subject  of  argument,  and  we  were  fond  of 
comparing  their  doctrine  with  the  discipline  of 
Buddha.  Did  we  ever  come  to  a  conclusion  ? 
I  think  not.  And  now,  as  an  aftermath  of  those 
days,  I  have  attempted  in  these  translations  to 
bring  together  the  verses  I  used  to  quote  in  illus- 
tration of  my  views,  or  should  have  quoted  if 
memory  had  been  faithful  to  her  call.     And,  first 


of  all,  do  not  demur  on  reading  the  name  of  Bhar- 
trihari  at  the  head  of  these  epigrams.  Count  them 
up,  and  you  will  find  the  greater  part  taken  from 
his  work,  while  precedent  from  India  itself  justi- 
fied me  in  substituting  other  stanzas  where  his 
own  were  not  to  my  purpose. 

As  for  Bhartrihari,  I  wish  my  study  enabled  me 
to  relate  with  certainty  the  story  of  his  life ;  but  it 
is  all  dark.  This  will  not  surprise  you,  for  perhaps 
no  other  people  of  the  world  have  cared  so  little 
for  historical  record  as  the  Hindus.  Their  rulers, 
their  lawgivers,  their  revered  sages,  are  for  the  most 
part  names  only.  Even  in  their  more  personal 
literature  the  individuality  of  the  poet  is  rarely 
manifest ;  and  this  is  a  witness  to  the  sincerity  of 
their  words  who  ever  proclaimed  the  surrender  of 
earthly  distinctions  for  the  winning  of  a  higher  good. 
Concerning  Bhartrihari  various  traditions  may  be 
read.  Thus  much  apparently  is  true,  that  at  some 
early  period  in  our  era  he  reigned  in  Oujein,  the 
legend  would  add  magnificently,  to  enhance  his 
later  renunciation,  as  in  the  case  of  Buddha  also. 
Suddenly  he  was  aroused  from  this  voluptuous  life 
by  an  intrigue  of  the  palace  whose  nature  tradition 
detects  in  one  of  the  epigrams  of  our  collections : 


Now  judge  ye  !  —  for  a  girl  I  walked  forlorn. 

Thereupon  he  abdicated  the  throne  in  favor  of  a 
younger  brother,  and,  withdrawing  to  the  woods, 
passed  the  remainder  of  his  Hfe  in  a  cavern  still 
pointed  out  to  the  curious  traveler  at  Oujein. 
Here  we  may  picture  to  ourselves  the  royal  ere- 
mite reclined  at  ease  during  the  cool  hours  of 
morning  or  evening  twilight,  looking  out  over 
the  valley  land  and  the  dusky  city ;  and  we  may 
understand  how  at  times,  in  the  intervals  of  more 
austere  thought,  the  recollection  of  his  former  life 
and  of  the  rivalries  of  busy  courtiers  may  have 
brought  a  smile  to  his  lips  :  — 

How  slow  to  him  who  haunts  preferment's  door 
The  long  days  drag!  how  lightly  hurry  o'er 
When  the  awakened  soul  hath  thrown  aside 
Its  load  of  worldly  pride! 

So,  lying  near  my  cavern's  rocky  ledge, 
I  'd  dream  at  ease  upon  the  mountain  edge; 
And  laugh  a  little  in  my  heart,  and  then 
Plunge  into  thought  again. 

Do  the  English  words  of  this  last  line  seem 
familiar   to   you  ?      They   arc   borrowed    from   a 


stanza  of  Matthew  Arnold  you  were  fond  of  quot- 
ing:— 

The  East  bow'd  low  before  the  blast 

In  patient,  deep  disdain; 
She  let  the  legions  thunder  past. 

And  plunged  in  thought  again. 

Bhartrihari  wrote  his  epigram  long  ago  and  in 
a  far-off  land,  but  the  sentiment  of  it  is  still  new. 
Just  recently  I  read  it  to  a  friend  who  for  years 
had  been  a  miner  in  the  mountains  of  Colorado. 
There,  in  a  solitary  hut  built  on  a  rocky  ledge,  he 
passed  summer  and  winter  with  a  single  compan- 
ion, far  removed  from  civilization.  "  Ay,"  said 
he  when  I  had  read  the  verses,  "  your  old  Hindu 
tells  the  simple  truth  ;  every  word  of  it  might  have 
been  written  from  my  own  experience."  Such, 
it  is  said,  were  the  last  years  of  our  poet's  life. 
Nor  must  we  suppose  that  their  isolation  oppressed 
him  with  a  feeling  of  special  loneliness.  He  was 
versed  in  the  wisdom  of  his  land,  and  must  well 
have  pondered  in  his  youth  the  celebrated  lines 
in  the  law-book,  telling  of  a  more  universal  and 
inevitable  loneliness  of  the  spirit,  whether  in  so- 
ciety or  solitude ;  for  it  is  written  :  — 


'•')  5  (-* 

Alone  each  mortal  first  draws  breath; 

Alone  goes  down  the  way  of  death; 

Alone  he  tastes  the  bitter  food 
Of  evil  deeds,  alone  the  fruit  of  good. 
Now  this  particular  tale  of  the  prince  and  her- 
mit may  be  true  or  may  not ;  but  that  a  royal 
convert  should  abandon  the  luxury  of  his  palace, 
and  choose  a  peaceful  life  of  contemplation  in  the 
forest,  would  be  no  more  than  a  commonplace  of 
Indian  experience.  Their  moralists  indeed,  and 
Bhartrihari  among  them,  speak  of  the  three  paths, 
pleasure,  worldly  wisdom,  and  renunciation  ;  but 
in  reality  they  recognized  only  two  ideals,  between 
which  they  could  conceive  no  substantial  ground  of 
mediation.  Our  poet  states  the  contrast  sharply 
in  one  of  his  epigrams  :  "  There  are  in  the  world 
but  two  things  that  men  may  cherish,  —  either 
the  youth  of  fair  girls  who  yearn  ever  for  the 
renewal  of  love's  dallying,  or  else  the  forest-life." 
And  again,  after  the  choice  is  made,  he  writes  : 
"  Ho,  Lord  of  Love !  why  weary  thy  hand  with 
ever  twanging  the  bow  ?  Ho,  sweet  cuckoo  bird  ! 
why  warble  in  vain  thy  amorous  songs  ?  And 
thou,  fair  girl,  turn  otherwhere  thy  sly  glances, 
charged  with  languorous  spells  and  sweet  allure- 


T.)  6  (•* 

ments.     Now  is  my  mind  plunged  in  the  ambro- 
sia of  meditation  at  (^iva's  feet." 

We  read  of  Buddha  also  that  he  fled  from  a 
voluptuous  court  to  seek  salvation  in  the  wilder- 
ness. They  but  followed  in  the  steps  of  innu- 
merable holy  men  before  them.  In  fact,  such 
a  withdrawal  from  the  world  was  definitely  en- 
joined on  every  Brahmin  after  his  duties  as  house- 
holder had  been  performed  and  his  sons  had  come 
to  maturity.  We  have  only  to  glance  at  their 
ancient  books  to  learn  how  commonly  this  precept 
was  obeyed.  The  Greeks,  too,  who  became  ac- 
quainted with  India  under  Alexander,  came  back 
with  marvelous  accounts  of  these  forest-dwellers 
and  gymnosophists.  It  was  not  so  hard  in  that 
warm  climate  to  live  in  the  wilderness,  fashioning 
for  the  body  rough  garments  of  bark-fibre,  eating 
of  the  abundant  fruits,  drinking  the  water  of  un- 
polluted streams,  bathing  in  the  sacred  pools,  and 
sleeping  on  gathered  leaves.  A  village  was  not 
far  away,  and  the  people  were  always  glad  to  fill 
the  holy  man's  bowl  with  rice  and  fragments  of 
bread,  if  he  chose  to  present  himself  for  alms. 

Two  classes  of  hermits  may  be  distinguished, 
—  those  who  practiced  austerities,  and  those  who 


^)  7  (* 

merely  sought  a  place  of  untroubled  retirement. 
The  self-inflicted  penance  of  the  former  was 
often  incredibly  severe.  The  epics  are  replete 
with  exaggerated  accounts  of  their  endurance. 
Such  is  the  wild  legend  of  the  Sagarids,  —  of 
the  grandson  of  Sagara  who  for  thirty-two  thou- 
sand years  devoted  himself  to  austerities  on  the 
heights  of  Himalaya,  and  passed  to  heaven  with- 
out seeing  the  accomplishment  of  his  desires  ;  of 
the  great-grandson  who  with  arms  raised  aloft 
stood  in  the  midst  of  four  fires  and  beneath  the 
blazing  sun,  nourishing  himself  on  fallen  leaves, 
for  a  thousand  years.  Then  at  last  the  gods  were 
satisfied,  and  in  answer  to  his  prayer  sent  down 
the  sacred  Ganga,  or  Ganges,  from  heaven  ;  whose 
thunderous  fall,  the  story  says,  ^iva  first  received 
on  his  head,  for  otherwise  it  would  have  crushed 
the  world.  So  for  many  years  the  river  strayed  in 
the  matted  locks  of  the  god,  until,  finding  an  out- 
let, it  poured  down  on  the  earth.  These  are  fool- 
ish stories,  but  they  indicate  very  well  the  ideal 
which  the  anchorite  held  before  him.  His  aim 
was  not  so  much  to  atone  for  sins  as  to  fortify  the 
will  by  endurance  until  even  the  gods  must  tremble 
at  his  word.     To  counteract  the  power  of  these 


^)  8  (-* 

aspirants  the  gods  often  gave  themselves  to  simi- 
lar practices,  and  ^iva  especially  is  represented  as 
engaging  in  the  most  fantastic  forms  of  penance. 

But,  besides  these  savage  persecutors  of  virtue, 
many  withdrew  to  the  woods  for  the  sake  of  un- 
disturbed meditation.  Some  dwelt  alone,  like  our 
royal  seer,  thinking  that  wisdom  is  to  be  courted 
in  solitude.  Others  took  their  families  with  them 
and  lived  together  in  friendly  colonies.  There 
the  intricacies  of  the  Brahminical  ritual  might  be 
exchanged  for  pious  contemplation,  and  the  sacri- 
fice in  the  imagination  became  as  efficacious  as 
the  actual  offering  on  the  altar.  Genial  debate 
gave  exercise  to  the  mind,  and  the  cultivation  of 
fruits  and  flowers  might  occupy  the  hands.  There 
is  nothing  more  beautiful,  nothing  tenderer,  in 
Indian  poetry  than  the  portrayal  of  this  forest-life 
in  many  famous  episodes  of  the  Epics  and  in  the 
Drama  of  the  Ring. 

But  to  return  to  Bhartrihari,  who  chose  rather 
the  deeper  tranquillity  of  isolation.  Under  his 
name  we  have  a  little  book  of  epigrams  called  the 
^ataka-trayam,  or  Century-triad,  in  which  he  un- 
folds in  somewhat  broken  sequence  his  experience 
of  life.     The  first  hundred  stanzas  are  devoted  to 


the  love  of  woman,  her  charm  and  yet  her  baleful 
influence.  He  sings  the  power  and  mischiev- 
ous deeds  of  Kama,  the  Indian  Eros,  of  whom 
many  strange  stories  are  told.  Now  Kama  was 
a  mighty  archer,  though  his  arrows  were  tipped 
only  with  flowers ;  and  often  the  gods  themselves 
had  to  lament  the  fatal  accuracy  of  his  aim.  He 
is  a  mighty  angler  as  well.  Women  are  his  bait, 
and  we,  poor  silly  fish,  are  caught  on  his  hook 
and  then  broiled  on  his  fire,  —  a  dainty  repast  for 
a  god,  no  doubt. 

Of  these  stanzas  devoted  to  women  some  are 
very  tender,  some  very  bitter.  Those  that  depict 
her  charms  have  a  peculiarly  melting,  sympathetic 
quality  such  as  we  find  in  our  romantic  poetry. 
It  is  indeed  worthy  of  remark  that  the  Hindu  treat- 
ment of  love  and  nature  is  in  many  ways  more 
akin  to  our  own  sentiment  than  are  the  classics. 
Love,  to  be  sure,  is  without  the  Platonic  mania 
which  infests  modern  poetry,  but  otherwise  is  ex- 
pressed with  the  same  wistful  tenderness  so  famil- 
iar to  us,  and  so  foreign  to  the  simpler,  more  virile 
temper  of  Greece  and  Rome.  Together  with  this 
delicacy  there  is,  however,  a  marked  monotony  in 
the  Hindu  poets'  delineation  of  women,  due  to  an 


«•)  10  (■*» 

inevitable  habit  of  generalizing.  They  write  not 
of  a  particular  woman  but  of  the  kind,  repeating 
certain  conventional  traits  of  description  almost 
without  variation,  and  treating  her,  not  as  an  indi- 
vidual character,  but  as  a  symbol  of  sensual  plea- 
sure to  be  flattered  or  reviled,  according  to  the 
writer's  temperament. 

Natural  description  is  introduced  not  merely  to 
give  a  locality  for  the  action,  as  in  the  classics. 
It  is  more  closely  identified  with  the  mood  of  the 
agent,  and  becomes  highly  symbolical  as  in  writers 
like  our  own  Hawthorne.  I  know  that  this  more 
intimate  feeling  for  Nature  is  not  entirely  wanting 
in  the  classics,  and  that  such  general  distinctions 
are  easily  exaggerated.  The  sea  in  Homer  has  a 
haunting,  half  mystical  affinity  with  the  moods  of 
his  heroes.  We  remember  the  priest  of  Apollo 
walking  in  silence  by  the  shore  of  the  many- 
sounding  sea.  We  remember  that  Achilles  was 
the  child  of  an  ocean  goddess,  and  see  him  in  his 
wrath  before  his  hut  looking  out  over  the  tumult- 
uous waters.  Odysseus,  when  we  first  meet 
him,  is  sitting  on  the  beach,  after  his  wont,  gazing 
homeward  over  the  unharvested  sea,  wasting  his 
heart  with  tears  and  lamentations.     And  through- 


1^)  II  (■* 

out  the  poem,  to  the  last  prophecy  that  his  rest  is 
to  come  after  establishing  the  worship  of  Poseidon 
in  a  far  inland  country,  always  the  ocean  is  inter- 
woven with  his  destiny.  In  both  poems  the 
"  murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea "  are 
never  far  away,  and  we  cannot  think  of  Homer's 
world  without  repeating  his  words  :  — 

Trepl  Se  poos  'OKcavoto 
acfipw  fjLopfxvpuiv  peev  aarirero^. 

In  Lucretius  the  sky,  the  fiammantia  moenia 
mundi^  seems  with  its  unspeakable  terrors  and  in- 
finite distances,  "  traversed  by  the  moon  and  the 
day,  by  the  night  with  her  austere  constellations, 
by  night-wandering  torches  of  heaven  and  flitting 
fires,  by  clouds,  sun,  rains,  snow,  winds,  lightnings, 
hail,  by  swift  shuddering  sounds  and  mighty  mur- 
muring of  threats,"  — the  sky  seems  ever  to  stand 
as  the  physical  counterpart  of  the  poet's  own  ti- 
tanic thought,  striving  to  note  with  mortal  speech 
immortal  things.  Virgil,  too,  might  be  adduced  for 
his  use  of  the  glad  meadows  and  the  works  of 
men  ;  but,  after  all,  this  symbolic  treatment  of  the 
outer  world  is  sufficiently  rare  in  antiquity  to  jus- 
tify our  comparison.  The  classical  writers  did 
not  as  a  rule  search   for  this  sympathetic  spirit  in 


<»•)   12  (•*• 

Nature,  nor  read  in  her  varying  aspects  the  expres- 
sion of  their  own  changeful  moods.  But  in  In- 
dian poetry  it  is  quite  different.  Here  the  world 
loses  its  firm  reality  and  seems  but  a  shadow  of  the 
inner  man.  Nor  is  it  a  wilful  paradox  to  assert 
that  because  of  this  very  unreality  of  nature  the 
Hindu's  feeling  for  it  becomes  in  a  way  more  in- 
tensely real :  his  contact  with  it  is  closer  and  more 
sympathetic,  just  because  it  is  a  mere  projection 
of  his  own  personality.  One  need  only  read  the 
first  Century  of  Bhartrihari  to  see  how  in  this  re- 
spect Indian  poetry  approaches  the  methods  of 
mediaeval  romance.  Nature  is  here  burdened  with 
human  meaning ;  birds  and  flowers,  hills,  sky, 
winds,  and  streams,  all  the  earth  is  redolent  of 
passion.  In  the  springtide  the  song  of  the  cuckoo 
brings  torture  to  those  who  are  separated;  the 
lotus  flower  multiplies  in  a  myriad  places  one  be- 
loved countenance ;  the  a^oka  tree  may  not  open 
its  swelling  buds  until  touched  by  a  maiden's  foot. 
The  second  Century  is  perhaps  less  interesting 
than  either  of  the  other  two.  Its  subject  is  the 
prudential  ethics  of  worldly  wisdom,  pointed  now 
and  then  with  sarcastic  flings  at  fools,  flatterers, 
pedants,  and  all  babblers  ;  elevated  at  times  to  the 


*)  13  (•* 

expression  of  the  highest  and  purest  morality  ;  and 
troubled  again  with  bitter  reflections  on  the  brevity 
and  insufficiency  of  mortal  existence. 

There  is  a  marked  change  on  turning  to  the 
third  and  last  Century.  We  feel  at  once  that 
here  the  poet's  heart  is  in  his  work  when  he  sings 
of  the  true  wisdom,  of  the  finding  of  peace,  and 
the  gladness  of  his  new  life.  To  characterize 
these  stanzas  would  be  to  review  the  ideals  of 
Hindu  philosophy,  and  it  is  better  to  allow  Bhar- 
trihari  to  speak  for  himself.  One  principle,  and 
that  the  fundamental  one,  of  their  religion,  let  me 
touch  upon  briefly,  because  it  is  commonly  over- 
looked or  perverted  in  systematic  treatises  on  the 
subject.  We  read  constantly  of  the  monism  of  the 
Hindus,  of  their  attempts  to  reduce  all  things  to  one 
substance.  But  this  statement  must  be  accepted 
with  a  reservation.  In  fact  their  intellectual  atti- 
tude is  the  result  of  a  keen  perception  of  the  dual 
nature  of  man  and  the  world  at  large;  and  this 
holds  true  even  in  the  Vedanta,  commonly  cited  as 
the  most  radical  of  monistic  systems.  Furthermore, 
it  would  hardly  be  too  much  to  aver  that  the  spirit- 
uality of  any  philosophy  or  religion  is  measured 
by  its  recognition  of  this  contrast.      The  Iranians, 


<»•)  14  (j^ 

nearest  of  kin  to  the  Hindus,  divided  the  universe 
into  tw^o  eternally  hostile  camps,  the  regnum  lucis 
and  the  regnum  tenebrarum^  vi^hich  forever  clash  in 
battle.  And  man,  as  containing  in  himself  both 
elements,  must  bear  a  part  in  the  ceaseless  conflict. 
Saint  Augustine  cannot  emphasize  too  strongly 
the  heinousness  of  sin,  —  sin,  not  eternal  in  its 
nature  nor  yet  a  product  of  the  body,  but  the  aber- 
ration of  a  free  finite  w^ill  that  denies  allegiance  to 
its  creator,  the  source  of  life,  and  v^^hose  penalty 
is  death.  Plato,  speaking  for  Greece  and  tran- 
scending its  old  philosophy,  traces  the  discord  of 
existence  to  the  opposition  of  spirit  and  matter; 
and  this,  likewise,  is  the  theory  of  the  Hindus. 
They  proclaim  the  irreconcilable  enmity  of  the 
soul  and  the  body.  Salvation  with  them,  as 
with  the  Greek,  is  a  system  of  purgation,  a  dying 
to  the  flesh,  until  the  soul  is  made  free  to  enjoy 
its  own  unalloyed  perfection.  Plato  affirms  that 
we  can  have  knowledge  only  of  the  soul  and  of 
essences  similar  to  the  soul ;  touching  the  body 
and  material  things,  there  is  only  ignorance,  or  at 
best  uncertain  opinion.  He  is  fond  of  identifying 
knowledge  and  virtue,  ignorance  and  vice,  and  of 
avowing  that  by  knowledge  the  wise  man  liberates 


-♦.)  15  ("^ 

himself  from  the  world,  —  but  knowledge  of  what  ? 
Hardly  in  Plato  will  you  find  an  adequate  answer 
to  this  simple  and  inevitable  question.  Now  the 
Vedanta  teaches  the  same  doctrine  of  knowledge 
and  ignorance ;  but  it  goes  a  step  further,  and 
herein  lie  its  clearness  and  originality.  Regard- 
ing the  world  without,  we  have  only  ignorance  or 
false  opinion.  It  therefore  exists  for  us  only  in 
these,  and  for  us  ignorance  is  the  cause  of  the 
world.  With  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  igno- 
rance is  destroyed,  and  the  world  of  which  it  is  the 
cause  ceases  for  us  to  exist.  We  win  deliverance 
by  knowledge,  —  and  knowledge  of  what  ?  By 
apprehension  of  this  definite  truth,  that  the  soul 
has  real  existence,  and  that  the  world  has  only  a 
phantom  existence  in  illusion.  Knowledge,  it 
may  be  added,  is  not  a  verbal  conviction  merely, 
but  something  akin  to  faith,  a  realization  of  truth 
that  touches  the  whole  character  of  man,  spring- 
ing up  of  itself  by  some  strange  incommunicable 
force. 

Such  in  brief  is  the  aspiration  that  pervades 
Sanskrit  literature,  and  that  finds  expression  in 
these  epigrams  of  Bhartrihari.  It  would  be  a  sat- 
isfaction  to    know  that  they    really    contain    the 


<*-)  i6  (•*- 

meditations  of  the  princely  recluse  of  Oujein  ;  but 
unfortunately  they  are  preserved  in  so  disorderly  a 
sequence,  differing  too  so  widely  in  various  recen- 
sions, and  so  many  stanzas  have  been  substituted 
or  added  to  the  original  three  hundred,  that  doubts 
arise  regarding  the  authenticity  of  the  whole  col- 
lection. Either  Bhartrihari's  name  has  been  loosely 
given  to  a  floating  anthology,  as  the  name  of  Solo- 
mon was  similarly  employed  by  the  Jews,  or  else 
a  long  succession  of  editors  have  altered  and  added 
without  scruple.  For  my  own  part  I  find  in  the 
greater  number  of  these  poems  so  peculiar  a  flavor, 
something  so  distinct  from  the  other  thousands  of 
epigrams  in  Boehtlingk's  Anthology,  that  I  accept 
without  hesitation  their  traditional  origin.  Out  of 
them  I  have  selected  for  translation  a  number 
which  seem  to  contain  the  best  expression  of  the 
poet's  ideas,  and  in  lieu  of  explanatory  notes  have 
added  stanzas  from  other  sources,  freely,  having 
regard  to  the  mixed  and  uncertain  nature  of  the 
Sanskrit  collection. 

And  now,  my  dear  Babbitt,  with  these  words  of 
introduction  to  you  and  to  the  public,  I  would 
place  the   little  book  in  your  hands.     You  will 


look  in  vain  for  any  reproduction  of  the  delicate 
art,  the  subtle  intricacies  of  rhythm,  the  inter- 
woven assonances,  the  curiously  wrought  style, 
of  the  original.  Our  language  is  not  capable  of 
these,  and  must  compensate  them  by  artifices  of 
its  own.  Let  me  hope  that  some  echo  of  Bhar- 
trihari's  wisdom  and  pathos  may  still  be  heard  in 
this  English  version. 

Accept  the  volume  also  as  a  partial  answer  to 
the  question  often  discussed  between  us,  whether 
the  Occident  would  find  enlightenment  or  only 
deeper  confusion  of  mind  from  the  study  of  India 
and  her  religious  life.  By  some  strange  gift  of 
fate,  a  few  nations  in  the  past  have  accomplished 
a  work  once  for  all  and  not  to  be  repeated.  It  is 
not  likely  that  another  people  shall  arise  like  the 
Greeks  of  the  Periclean  age,  who  shall  possess  so 
keen  a  sense  of  harmony  in  form  and  action.  A 
solitary  man  or  group  of  men  may  now  and  then 
be  found  whose  mind  like  theirs  is  attuned  to 
beauty,  but  we  shall  look  and  wait  in  vain  for 
such  another  generation.  Many  things  in  their 
life  we  may  censure,  may  account  worthy  even  of 
abomination,  but  one  perfect  gift  they  had  from 
their  gods.     Their  forms  have  passed  away  with 


<*)  i8  (•* 

their  civilization,  and  cannot  be  revived  or  imi- 
tated ;  but  whoever  w^ould  seek  inspiration  in  art 
and  poetry  at  their  fountain  head  must  nov/  and 
always  turn  back  to  Athens  and  laboriously  learn 
her  ancient  speech.  So,  too,  of  the  Romans  we 
may  say  that  hardly  shall  the  earth  bear  a  second 
time  men  of  character  and  temper  like  these. 
They  have  taught  us,  once  for  all,  what  the  human 
will  can  do.  May  we  not  add  of  the  Hindus  that 
for  one  brief  period  in  their  development,  during 
that  century  when  Zoroaster  was  teaching  in  Ira- 
nia  and  Pythagoras  in  the  West,  they  showed  in 
their  discourse  and  in  their  lives  a  depth  of  reli- 
gious sentiment,  a  grasp  of  things  spiritual,  that 
still  after  so  many  ages  affects  us  with  wonder, 
perhaps  incredulity, — 

**  And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt  "  ? 

We  cannot  to-day  —  it  is  better  so — reproduce 
the  literature  of  Greece;  we  should  shudder  at 
the  Roman  sternness ;  to  call  ourselves  disciples 
of  Buddha  or  believers  in  Brahma —  as  some  un- 
stable minds  are  prone  to  do  —  would  be  super- 
stition and  not  spirituality  :  yet  to  each  of  these 
peoples  we  may  turn  for  strength  and  consolation ; 


<».)  19  (•* 

nay,  we  must  turn  to  them  if  we  would  fortify 
our  isolated  life  with  the  virtue  and  dignity  of  ex- 
perience. 

Bhartrihari  wrote  at  a  time  when  the  thought 
of  India  had  already  become  stereotyped,  and 
verbal  repetition  had  begun  to  take  the  place  of 
living  inspiration.  He  has  in  him  something  of 
his  age ;  we  feel  at  times  that  the  spirit  is  dead- 
ened by  the  "  sad  mechanic  exercise  of  verse." 
On  the  other  hand,  no  earlier  poet  can  be  found 
whose  work  has  sufficient  perfection  of  form  to 
admit  of  acceptable  translation.  Take  him  all  in 
all,  he  may  stand  as  no  unfaithful  exponent  of  a 
literature  the  discussion  of  which  gave  so  much 
pleasure,  and  I  trust  profit,  to  our  life  together  in 
Cambridge :  — 

Quare  habe  tibi  quidquid  hoc  libelli. 

P.  E.  M. 

Shelburne,  N.  H. 
I  December,  1897. 


INDIAN    EPIGRAMS 


0  23  {'■ 


One  walketh  in  Renunciation's  way; 

Another  fain  would  pay 

In  Worldly  Wisdom  all  his  soul's  large  debt ; 

And  one  in  Pleasure's  path 

With  love  still  wandering  on  would  all  forget : 

Three  roads  the  wide  world  hath. 


u)  24  {'. 


II 


In  many  a  cavern  on  the  wild  hill-slopes 
That  near  to  heaven  climb, 
By  many  a  pool,  dwell  eremites  with  hopes 
That  lauffh  at  measured  time. 


They  lave  in  the  cool  Ganga  where  it  flows 
Over  the  level  rocks; 

They  peer  among  the  trees  where  ^iva  goes 
Tossing  his  matted  locks ; 


They  breathe  in  joy  :  but  we  —  alas  that  fate 
Made  woman's  love  so  fair ! 
For  love  restrains  us  in  a  world  we  hate, 
Cajoled  by  woman's  snare. 


0  25  {' 


III 


Girls  with  the  startled  eyes  of  forest  deer, 
And  fluttering  hands  that  drip 
With  sandal-water ;  bathing-halls  with  clear 
Deep  pools  to  float  and  dip  ; 


The  light  moon  blown  across  the  shadowy  hours, 
Cool  winds,  and  odorous  flowers. 
And  the  high  terraced  roof,  —  all  things  enhance 
In  Summer  love's  sweet  trance. 


0  26  {'■ 


IV 


This  sodden  air  a  needle  scarce  would  prick ; 

The  wind  dies  in  a  gloom 

Of   dripping    leaves;  and   the    low  clouds   with 

quick 
Reverberations  boom. 


Bewildered  by  heaven's  fire  I  blindly  grope 
Through  the  chill  Autumn  storm, 
To  love's  bright  chamber,  where  one  heart,  I  hope, 
With  summer  still  is  warm. 


0  27  {'■ 


This  Winter  gale  will  play  the  gallant  lover, 

And  meeting  careless  girls 

Will   pluck   their   gowns,  and  with   rude  fingers 

hover 
Among  their  tangled  curls. 


He  '11  kiss  their  eyelids  too,  their  cheeks  caress 
Till  they  are  all  a-tremble ; 
He  '11  tease  their  lips  till  murmurs  soft  confess 
The  love  they  would  dissemble. 


0  28  {'■ 


VI 


'T  is  earth's  Renewal  :  now  the  fluttering  breeze, 
Blown  from  the  snowy  hills 
And  filtered  through  the  blooming  mango  trees, 
The  world  with  sweetness  fills. 


Now  the  mad  bees  are  stung  with  brisk  alarm; 

And  the  wild  cuckoos  charm 

The   woods   with   singing,    Well!  ah  well!   'tis 

well  I 
We  yield  to  Kama's  spell ! 


0  29  {'■ 


VII 

The  silvery  laughter ;  eyes  that  sparkle  bold, 
Or  droop  in  virgin  rue; 

The  prattling  words  of  wonder  uncontrolled 
When  world  and  life  are  new; 


The  startled  flight  and  dallying  slow  return, 
And  all  their  girlish  sport;  — 
Ah  me,  that  they  time's  ruinous  truth  must  learn. 
Their  flowering  be  so  short  ! 


u)  30  (•*. 


VIII 

Who  hath  escaped  desire  ? 

And  thou,  O  King,  —  what  profit  in  thy  wealth 
When  Time  with  creeping  stealth 
Has  quenched  thy  youth  and  covered  o'er  love's 
fire? 


Nay,  let  us  haunt  the  hall 

Where  loves  forever  call, 

And  girls  with  full-blown  eyes  like  lotus  flowers 

Look  laughing  into  ours. 

Ere  age  and  withering  palsies  blight  us  all. 


■')  31  {'' 


IX 


A  flower  whose  fragrance  none  hath  savored, 
A  singing  bird  no  ear  hath  favored, 
White  pearl  no  jeweler  hath  bored, 
Untasted  honey  freshly  stored 
In  a  clean  jar,  unbroken  fruit 
That  ripens  now  from  virtue's  root,  — 
Wondering  I  ask,  O  form  unspotted. 
To  whose  delight,  sweet  girl,  thou  art  allotted  ? 


■')  32  (" 


My  love  within  a  forest  walked  alone, 

All  in  a  moonlit  dale ; 

And  here  awhile  she  rested,  weary  grown, 

And  from  her  shoulders  threw  the  wimpled  veil 

To  court  the  little  gale. 

I  peering  through  the  thicket  saw  it  all, 
The  yellow  moonbeams  fall, 
I  saw  them  mirrored  from  her  bosom  fly 
Back  to  the  moon  on  high. 


'^)  33  {'■ 


XI 


O  fair  A^oka-tree,  with  love's  own  red 
Thy  boughs  are  all  aflame  ; 
Whither,  I  pray  thee,  hath  my  wanton  fled  ? 
This  way  I  know  she  came. 


In  vain  thy  nodding  in  the  wind,  thy  sigh 
Of  ignorance  assumed ; 

I  know  because  my  flower-love  wandered  by 
For  joy  thy  branches  bloomed. 


I  know  thee :  ever  with  thy  buds  unblown, 
Till  touched  by  maiden's  footj 
And  thou  so  fair  —  one  fairest  maid  alone 
Hath  trod  upon  thy  root. 


0  34  i- 


XII 

Love's  fruit  in  all  the  world  is  only  this, 
That  two  as  one  should  think  ; 
And  they  that  disagree  yet  woo  love's  bliss, 
Dead  corpse  with  corpse  would  link. 


')  35  (^ 


XIII 

Pluck    the    new  -  budding    jasmine    flower,   and 

wreathe 
A  garland  for  my  brows  ; 
Let  saffron  on  my  flesh  and  sandal  breathe 
Their  perfume  of  carouse  ; 
And  then,  O  true  love,  lean  upon  my  heart, 
And  all  of  heaven  is  there,  or  the  best  part. 


0  36  > 


XIV 

Brightly  the  hearth-fire  leap,  and  the  lit  lamp 

Be  burning  clear  and  high ; 

Let  sun  or  moon  and  starry  hosts  encamp 

With  beacons  in  the  sky  :  — 

Yet  darkness  in  my  heart  and  all  is  dark, 

Till  I  behold  thine  eyes  and  their  love-spark. 


0  37  0 


XV 


But  to  remember  her  my  heart  is  sad, 

To  see  her  is  to  know 

Bewildered  thoughts,  and  touching  driveth  mad, 

How  is  she  dear  that  worketh  only  woe  ? 


0  38  e 


XVI 

A  traveler  pausing  at  the  village  well, 

His  hollowed  palms  a  cup, 

Bends  down  to  drink,  but  caught  as  by  a  spell, 

With  thirst  unslaked  looks  up. 


And  the  fair  keeper  of  the  fountain  stands. 
Her  girlish  laughter  stilled. 
Nor  careth  from  her  urn  into  his  hands 
How  thin  a  stream  is  spilled. 


*)  39  (-^ 


XVII 

"  Why,  pretty  fool,  art  thou  so  slender  grown  ? 

Thou  tremblest  ?   and  the  prize 

Of  all  thy  roses,  whither  is  it  flown  ?  " 


"  My  Lord,  it  meaneth  nothing,"  she  replies, 
And  smiles,  —  but  when  alone. 
Loosing  the  tears  upgathered  in  her  eyes, 
Poor  fool,  she  sighs  and  sighs. 


u)  40  {'• 


XVIII 


With  one  they  laugh  and  chatter,  yet  beguile 
With  luring  eyes  a  second ; 
A  third  they  cherish  in  their  heart  the  while,  - 
Their  true  love  who  hath  reckoned  ? 


0  41  {" 


XIX 

Now  judge  ye  !  —  For  a  girl  I  walked  forlorn 
Who  laughed  my  vows  to  scorn  ; 
She  loved  another,  who  in  coin  repaid 
Wooing  a  second  maid. 


And  she,  this  second,  making  all  complete, 
Would  worship  at  my  feet.  — 
Four  pretty  fools  and  Kama  with  his  malice 
Thus  drove  me  from  my  palace. 


0  42  ('' 


XX 

Harder  than  faces  in  a  glass  designed, 

A  woman's  heart  to  bind  ; 

Like    mountain    paths    up    cragged    heights  that 

twist. 
Her  ways  are  lightly  missed. 


Like  early  dew-drops  quivering  on  a  leaf, 
Her  thoughts  are  idly  brief; 
And  errors  round  her  grow,  as  on  a  vine 
The  poison-tendrils  twine. 


0  43  {'■ 


XXI 

The  sportive  Love-god  in  this  worldly  sea 
Angles  continually  ; 

And  women  are  his  hook,  their  luring  lips 
The  bait  that  bobs  and  dips. 


We  greedy  fools,  like  silly  nibbling  fish. 
Are  landed  with  a  swish; 
And  then,  alack !  to  end  the  cruel  game 
Are  broiled  on  love's  quick  flame. 


.)  44  {'' 


XXII 

O  Wanderer  Heart  !  avoid  that  haunted  grove, 
The  body  of  thy  love ; 

Nor  in  her  bosom  stray,  vi^ild  mountain  fells 
Where  Love,  the  robber,  dwells. 


0  45  (-* 


XXIII 

Fair  is  her  body  as  a  lonely  river 
Whereon  the  moonbeams  quiver; 
About  her  waist  three  furrows  in  a  row. 
Like  circling  billows,  go. 


And  there  two  swans  their  snowy  plumage  lave, 
Soft  riding  on  the  wave ; 
There  water-lilies  nodding —  't  is  her  brow, 
A  whiter  flower.  —  O  Thou 


That  shudderest  in  this  sea  of  life  to  sink, 
Beware  that  river-brink  : 

Lo,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  depths,  there  dwell 
Monsters  unnamable. 


-».)  46  ('*' 


XXIV 

In  woman  is  the  cause  of  shame, 
For  woman  burneth  hatred's  flame, 
Through  woman  in  this  body's  snare 
The  soul  is  mewed,  —  of  woman,  ah!  beware. 


.)  47  (•*' 


XXV 

Who  reared  this  labyrinth  of  doubt, 
This  leaguered  town  of  reel  and  rout, 
This  house  of  scandal  ?  who  hath  sown 
These   fields    where    noisome    weeds    spring    up 
alone  ? 


This  wizard's  basket  who  hath  stored 
With  all  the  conjurer's  magic  hoard 
Of  vain  illusions  ?  — and  the  soul 
But  looking  once  forgets  her  blissful  goal. 


This  barrier  in  the  heavenly  path, 
This  gateway  to  the  pit  of  wrath. 
Who  made  her  then  ?  what  hand  perverse 
Her  moulded,  man's  inevitable  curse  ? 


0  48  e 


XXVI 

Communion  with  the  good  is  friendship's  root, 

That  dieth  not  until  our  death ; 
And  on  the  boughs  hang  ever  golden  fruit :  — 

And  this  is  friendship,  the  world  saith. 


Ourselves  we  doubt,  our  hearts  we  hardly  know, 
We  lean  for  guidance  on  a  friend ; 

Ay,  on  a  righteous  man  we'd  fain  bestow 
Our  faith,  and  follow  to  the  end. 


0  49  {'' 


XXVII 

Like  as  the  shadows  of  the  twilight  hour 

Differ  from  those  at  morn, 

So  doth  a  good  man's  friendship  in  its  power 

From  that  of  evil  born  :  — 

One  small  at  first  still  stronger,  deeper  grows. 

One  shortens  to  the  close. 


0  50  {'■ 


XXVIII 

By  truth  the  righteous  guide  upon  his  course 
The  rolling  sun,  and  stay  the  earth  by  force 

Of  penitence  austere. 
They  are  the  refuge  of  the  worlds  outworn, 
And  worlds  that  lurk  in  darkness  still  are  born 

Because  they  tarry  here. 


0  51  {'■ 


XXIX 

A  friend  or  stranger  comes  he  ?  —  so 
They  reckon  of  the  narrow  mind ; 

But  some  of  broader  reason  know 
In  all  the  world  one  kith  and  kind. 


0  52  {'' 


XXX 

Lightly  an  ignorant  boor  is  made  content, 

And  lightlier  yet  a  sage  ; 

But  minds  by  half-way  knowledge   warped  and 

bent, 
Not  Brahma's  self  their  fury  may  assuage. 


■')  53  {'■ 


XXXI 

Oil  from  the  sand  a  man  may  strain, 
If  chance  he  squeeze  with  might  and  main  ; 
The  pilgrim  at  the  magic  well 
Of  the  mirage  his  desert  thirst  may  quell. 


So  traveling  far  a  man  by  luck 
May  find  a  hare  horned  like  a  buck ;  — 
But  who  by  art  may  straighten  out 
The  crooked  counsels  of  a  stubborn  lout  ? 


0  54  (" 


XXXII 

Better,  I  said,  in  trackless  woods  to  roam 

With    chattering    apes    or  the    dumb   grazing 
herds. 

Than  dwell  with  fools,  though  in  a  prince's  home, 
And  bear  the  dropping  of  their  ceaseless  words. 


i 


■')  55  {-> 


XXXIII 

The  god  hath  wove  for  ignorance  a  cloak 
That  he  who  will  may  wear  ; 
And  mantled  thus  amid  the  wisest  folk 
Fools  may  unchallenged  fare :  — 
Be  silent !   over  all  that  words  afford, 
Silence  hath  its  reward. 


0  56  {- 


XXXIV 

I  saw  an  ass  who  bore  a  load 
Of  sandal  wood  along  the  road, 
And  almost  with  the  burden  bent, 
Yet  never  guessed  the  sandal  scent ; 
So  pedants  bear  a  ponderous  mass 
Of  books  they  comprehend  not,  —  like  the  ass. 


*)  57  (* 


XXXV 


Wisdom  acquire  and  knowledge  hive, 
As  thou  a  thousand  years  mightst  thrive; 
For  virtue  toil  with  sleepless  care. 
As  Death  already  grasped  thee  by  the  hair. 


.)  58  {'• 


XXXVI 


Say  thou  what  kindly  is  and  truth, 
Say  not  the  true  that  wakens  ruth, 
Say  not  the  kind  that  is  not  sooth. 


Yet  rather  silence  were  preferred. 
And  second  truth,  and  the  law  third, 
And  only  fourth  the  kindly  word. 


')  59  {'■ 


XXXVII 

Where  patience  dwells  what  need  of  other  shield  ? 
Why  prate  of  foemen  when  to  wrath  we  yield  ? 
More  warmth  our  kindred  give  than  fires ;  and 

friends 
Far  more  than   soothing  herbs  our  wounds  have 

healed. 


Why   pray  the    gods   whose  heaven   by    love    is 

wrought  ? 
Why  slave  for  wealth  when  wisdom  is  unbought  ? 

What  pearls  can  modesty  adorn  ?  what  gift 
Of  kings  add  splendor  to  the  poet's  thought  ? 


^)  60  (^ 


XXXVIII 

One  law  there  is  :  no  deed  perform 
To  others  that  to  thee  were  harm  ; 
And  this  is  all,  all  laws  beside 
With  circumstances  alter  or  abide. 


u)  6i  {'. 


XXXIX 

Better  from  the  sheer  mountain-top 
Headlong  thy  ruined  body  drop  ; 
Better  appease  the  serpent's  ire 
With  thy  right  hand ;  or  in  the  fire 
Behold  thy  riven  members  tost, 
Than  once  thy  mind's  integrity  were  lost. 


l)  62  {'■ 


XL 

This  have  I  done,  and  that  will  do, 
And  this  half-done  must  carry  through 
So  busied,  bustling,  full  of  care, 
Poor  fools,  Death  pounces  on  us  unaware. 


To-day  is  thine,  fulfill  its  work, 
Let  no  loose  hour  her  duty  shirk; 
Still  ere  thy  task  is  done,  comes  Death, 
The  Finisher,  —  he  ends  it  with  thy  breath. 


0  63  {" 


XLI 

Unworthy  be  the  toil-polluted  world  of  sense, 
Ay,  hateful  as  the  camping-ground  of  all  offense ; 

Yet  even  in  the  truth-devoted  heart,  anon 
Breaks   forth   its  vast  unnamed  impetuous  vehe- 
mence. 


0  64  {'■ 


XLII 


The  rooted  trees  would  walk  ;  the  beast 
For  utterance  yearning  still  is  dumb ; 
Man  toils  for  some  far  heaven,  wherefrom 

The  enthroned  gods  were  fain  released. 


0  65  (^ 


XLIII 

Pleasure  of  life  we  have  not  known, 
Ourselves  the  sport  of  Fate  alone ; 
Penance  of  soul  we  never  sought, 
But  in  our  heart  unbidden  sorrows  wrought. 


Time  hath  not  journeyed,  —  nay, 
But  we  are  passing  day  by  day ; 
And  the  desires  that  still  their  rage 
Are  not  grown  old — ourselves  are  chilled  with 
age. 


^)  66  (. 


XLIV 


For  buried  treasures  earth  I  bored,  ij 

I  smelted  all  a  mountain's  hoard, 
I  crossed  the  outrageous  boisterous  seas, 
And  for  a  king's  content  I  sold  my  ease. 


By  night  I  haunted  the  foul  tomb 
With  spells  to  waken  from  their  doom 
The  sleepers.  —     Did  I  e'er  succeed 
A  farthing  ?  —  out  upon  thee,  cursed  Greed  ! 


■')  67  e 


XLV 

O'er  perilous  mountain  roads  with  pain 
I  've  journeyed,  yet  acquired  no  gain  ; 
The  pride  of  birth  I  have  forsworn 
And  toiled  in  service,  yet  no  profit  borne. 


In  strange  homes  where  I  blushed  to  go 
My  food  I've  taken,  like  the  crow. 
And  eaten  shame.  —     Oh  lust  of  gold ! 
Oh  Greed !  that  younger  grow'st  as  I  wax  old  ! 


.)  68  (•*. 


XLVI 

Read !  —  the  Creator's  finger  on  thy  brow 
Hath  wrote  the  figure  of  thy  wealth;  nor  thou 
In  lonely  desert  hid  shalt  make  it  less, 
Nor  greater  on  the  Golden  Mount  possess. 
What  worry  then  ?  why  in  the  crowded  mart 
With  vulgar  traffic  wear  away  thy  heart  ? 
The  pitcher  at  the  well  is  filled,  nor  more 
Draws  at  the  ocean-shore. 


.)  69  {'■ 


XLVII 

A  captive  snake  half  dead  with  fright 
Starved  in  a  basket ;  till  one  night 
A  silly  mouse,  who  roamed  abroad, 
A  hole  straight  through  the  wicker  gnawed. 
And  in  his  very  gullet  jumped. 
The  serpent  felt  his  thin  sides  plumped. 
Took  cheer,  and  wriggled  out  in  turn.  — 
Who  knows  all  lucky  falls  in  Fortune's  urn  ? 


^)  70  (" 


XLVIII 

An  old  man  bald  as  a  copper  pot, 
Because  one  noon  his  head  grew  hot, 
Crawled  to  a  spreading  bilva-tree 
To  seek  the  shade.     By  Fate's  decree 
A  fruit  just  then  came  tumbling  down. 
And  cracked  the  old  man's  brittle  crown 
With  loud  explosion  — which  was  worse. 
Ill  dogs  us  everywhere  when  Fate  's  averse. 


*)  71  (" 


XLIX 

I  see  a  dog —  no  stone  to  shy  at  him ; 

Yonder  a  stone  —  no  dog  's  in  view  : 
There  is  your  dog,  here  stones  to  try  at  him- 

The  king's  dog  !  what 's  a  man  to  do  ? 


0  72  {-' 


If  the  Creator  moulding  goodly  man 

A  pearl  designed  him  to  adorn  the  earth, 
And  then  so  fragile  made  that  at  the  birth 

It  breaketh,  —  whose  the  folly  of  the  plan? 


-)  73  {' 


LI 


Rather  this  World  forever  as  a  wheel 
Itself  revolveth :   sure,  no  guilty  hand 
Propelled  it,  nor  shall  any  bid  it  stand, 

Nor  any  wit  a  primal  cause  reveal. 


And  thou,  my  Soul,  the  same  unlaureled  race 
Art  dragging  on  through  weary  change  of  form  ; 
Nay,  if  to-day  thou  murmur  in  the  storm. 

Blame  yesterday  and  choose  to-morrow's  place. 


^)  74  (. 


LII 

Like  as  our  outworn  garments  we  discard, 
And  other  new  ones  don  ; 

So  doth  the  Soul  these  bodies  doff  when  marred, 
And  others  new  put  on. 

Fire  doth  not  kindle  It,  nor  sword  divides, 
Nor  winds  nor  waters  harm; 
Eternal  and  unchanged  the  One  abides. 
And  smiles  at  all  alarm. 


')  IS  {'■ 


LIII 

Like  as  a  goldsmith  beateth  out  his  gold 
To  other  fashions  fairer  than  the  old, 

So  may  the  Spirit,  learning  ever  more. 
In  ever  nobler  forms  his  life  infold. 


0  76  {'■ 


LIV 

The  harvest  ripens  as  the  seed  was  sown, 
And  he  that  scattered  reaps  alone ;  — 
So  from  each  deed  there  falls  a  germ 
That  shall  in  coming  lives  its  source  affirm. 


Unseen  they  call  it,  for  it  lurks 
The  hidden  spring  of  present  works ; 
Unknown  before,  even  as  the  fruit 
Was  undiscovered  in  the  vital  root. 


And  he  that  now  impure  hath  been 
Impure  shall  be,  the  clean  be  clean ; 
We  wrestle  in  our  present  state 
With  bonds  ourselves  we   forged, —  and  call   it 
Fate. 


0  77  {" 


LV 

Before  the  Gods  we  bend  in  awe, 
But  lo,  they  bow  to  fate's  dread  law ; 
Honor  to  Fate,  then,  austere  lord  ! 
But  lo,  it  fashions  but  our  works'  reward. 


Nay,  if  past  works  our  present  state 
Engender,  what  of  gods  and  fate  ? 
Honor  to  Works  !   in  them  the  power 
Before  whose  awful  nod  even  fate  must  cower. 


0  78  {- 


LVI 

These  dear  companionships  are  not  forever ; 

The  wheel  of  being  without  end 
Still  whirls  :  if  on  the  way  some  meet  and  sever,  • 

'T  is  brother,  mother,  father,  friend. 


')  79  C 


LVII 

Our  little  wit  is  all  to  blame. 
And  separation  's  but  a  name ; 
Else  would  our  sorrow  day  by  day 
Grow  deeper.  —  Lo,  how  swift  it  slips  away  ! 


For  as  a  log  at  random  tost 
On  the  wide  waves  perchance  is  crest 
Here  by  another  drifting  spar,  — 
So  on  this  sea  of  life  our  meetings  are. 


<*•)  8o  (-5 


LVIII 

Wayfarers  on  the  dusty  road 
By  shaded  wells  their  heavy  load 
Undoing  rest  awhile,  and  then 
Pass  on  restored.  —  What  cause  of  tears,  O  men  ? 


')  8i  {" 


LIX 

Like  as  a  dancing-girl  to  sound  of  lyres 
Delights  the  king  and  wakens  sweet  desires 

For  one  brief  hour,  and  having  shown  her  art 
With  lingering  bow  behind  the  scene  retires : 


So  o'er  the  Soul  alluring  Nature  vaunts 
Her  lyric  spell,  and  all  her  beauty  flaunts ; 

And  she,  too,  in  her  time  withdrawing  leaves 
The  Watcher  to  his  peace  —  't  is  all  she  wants. 


^)  82  (•*  I 


LX 


Now  have  I  seen  it  all !  the  Watcher  saith, 
And  wonders  that  the  pageant  lingereth : 

And,  He  hath  seen  me !  then  the  Other  cries. 
And  wends  her  way  :  and  this  they  call  the  Death. 


No  more  the  Spirit  feels,  no  more  resolves ; 
Yet  as  the  potter's  wheel  awhile  revolves 
After  the  potter's  hand  is  still,  awhile 
The  body  draws  the  breath,  and  then  dissolves. 


■')  83  0 


LXI 

I  wonder  that  the  winged  soul 
Entered  the  body's  hard  control; 
I  wonder  not  when  worn  by  age 
The  prisoned  bird  escapes  the  open  cage. 


0  84  {'■ 


LXII 

While  other  birds  at  will  may  go 
Where  the  free  winds  of  heaven  blow. 
You,  silly  prattler,  as  the  wage 
Of  your  sweet  singing,  languish  in  a  cage. 


-)  85  {'■ 


LXIII 

This  World  is  blind  to  us  that  blinds  the  Soul ; 
We  find  Illusion  lord  of  all  its  laws, 
We  call  our  Ignorance  its  inner  cause, 

And  Knowledge  trust  to  break  its  long  control. 


Our  Self  we  know,  the  knower  and  the  known, 
We  name  it  Soul,  we  worship  it  as  God  j 
This  Knowledge  is  the  Lord,  and  at  its  nod 

This  We  shall  pass,  and  I  remain  alone. 


u)  86  ('. 


LXIV 


Here  nothing  is,  and  nothing  there, 
And  nothing  fronts  me  wheresoe'er; 
And  reckoning  all  I  find  the  whole 
Mere    nothing,   nothing  —  save    the    reckoning 
soul. 


0  87  {" 


LXV 


Seated  within  this  body's  car 
The  silent  Self  is  driven  afar ; 
And  the  five  senses  at  the  pole 
Like  steeds  are  tugging  restive  of  control. 


And  if  the  driver  lose  his  way, 
Or  the  reins  sunder,  who  can  say 
In  what  blind  paths,  what  pits  of  fear 
Will  plunge  the  chargers  in  their  mad  career  ? 


Drive  well,  O  Mind,  use  all  thy  art, 
Thou  charioteer  !  —  O  feeling  Heart, 
Be  thou  a  bridle  firm  and  strong  ! 
For  the  Lord  rideth  and  the  way  is  long. 


^)  88  {'. 


LXVI 

HE,  in  that  solitude  before 
The  world  was,  looked  the  wide  void  o'er 
And  nothing  saw,  and  said,  Lo  I 
Alone  !  —  and  still  we  echo  the  lone  cry. 


Thereat  He  feared,  and  still  we  fear 
In  solitude  when  naught  is  near  : 
And,  Lo,  He  said,  myself  alone  ! 
What  cause  of  dread  when  second  is  not  known  ? 


0  89  e 


LXVII 

Alone  each  mortal  first  draws  breath ; 
Alone  goes  down  the  way  of  death  ; 
Alone  he  tastes  the  bitter  food 
Of  evil  deeds,  alone  the  fruit  of  good. 


They  cast  him  in  the  earth  away, 
They  leave  him  as  a  lump  of  clay. 
They  turn  their  faces,  they  are  sped, 
And  only  Virtue  follows,  —  he  is  dead. 


So  garner  Virtue  till  the  end 
As  't  were  our  only  guide  and  friend  ; 
With  it  alone,  when  all  is  lost. 
We  cross  the  darkness,  ah,  so  hardly  crest. 


-)  90  (" 


LXVIII 

Time  is  the  root  of  all  this  earth  ; 
These  creatures,  who  from  Time  had  birth, 
Within  his  bosom  at  the  end 
Shall  sleep  -,  Time  hath  nor  enemy  nor  friend. 


All  we  in  one  long  caravan 
Are  journeying  since  the  world  began  ; 
We  know  not  whither,  but  we  know 
Time  guideth  at  the  front,  and  all  must  go.       ' 


Like  as  the  wind  upon  the  field 
Bows  every  herb,  and  all  must  yield. 
So  we  beneath  Time's  passing  breath 
Bow  each  in  turn,  —  why  tears  for  birth  or  death  ? 


-».)  91  0 


LXIX 

A  hundred  years  we  barely  keep, 
Yet  half  of  this  is  lost  in  sleep  ; 
And  half  our  waking  time  we  spend 
In  the  child's  folly  and  the  old  man's  end. 


And  of  the  hours  remaining,  fears 
And  gaunt  disease  and  parting  tears 
Are  all  the  prize  :  —  fie  on  the  slave 
Who  life  more  values  than  a  bubbling  wave  ! 


')  92  {' 


LXX 


A  while  the  helpless  wailing  child, 
A  while  the  youth  by  lusts  defiled, 
A  while  for  gold  to  cringe  and  swink, 
A  while  to  hear  the  yellow  counters  clink  : 


A  while  of  lonely  eld's  disgrace. 
The  palsied  limb  and  wizened  face, — 
Then  like  the  player  he  too  creeps 
Behind  the  heavy  curtain  —  he  too  sleeps. 


0  93  O 


LXXI 

Fallen  our  father,  fallen  who  bore 
For  us  the  pangs  —  they  went  before  : 
And  some  with  our  years  grew,  but  they, 
They  too  now  tread  on  memory's  dusty  way. 


And  we  ourselves  from  morn  to  morn 
Now  shiver  like  old  trees  forlorn 
Upon  a  sandy  shore,  and  all 
Our  care  the  lapping  waves  that  haste  our  fall. 


*)  94  (•' 


LXXII 

Old  age  like  as  a  tiger  held  at  bay 
Still  crouches  ;  sly  diseases  day  by  day 

Our  leaguered  body  sap  ; 
As  water  from  a  broken  urn,  so  leak 
Our  wasting  minutes  ;  —  lo,  this  people  seek 

Oblivion  in  love's  lap. 


'*)  95  {-^ 


LXXIII 

Others  for  buried  friends  lament, 
Or  sigh  for  wealth  too  quickly  spent: 
Fret  not,  O  King  ;  thy  own  grief  call 
Part  of  the  fatal  grief  that  toucheth  all. 


.)  96  (n 


LXXIV 

When  like  an  arrow  in  the  dark 
Sorrow  hath  made  our  breast  her  mark, 
Piercing  the  mail  'twixt  link  and  link, 
One  balm  there  is,  one  salve:  just  not  to  think. 


*)  97  {- 


LXXV 

Now  Sorrow  like  a  threefold  chain 
Grapples  our  heart  with  triple  pain  : 
And  one,  the  strongest  bond  I  think. 
Ourselves  we  forge  and  rivet  link  by  link. 


Another  many-fingered  Chance 
Still  weaves  with  daily  circumstance; 
And  one  some  strange  malignant  Might 
Drops    clanking    round    us    from    an  unknown 
height. 


0  98  (^ 


LXXVI 

Dear  brother,  I  have  found  the  way 
Though  steep  and  narrow  :   and  they  say 
Of  old  't  was  trod  by  many  a  seer 
Who  knew  his  end  and  climbed  from  sphere  to 
sphere. 


Searching  my  heart  I  found  the  clue, 
One  truth  though  nothing  else  be  true 
Sorrow  within  us  and  without. 
And  Sorrow  nearer  clinging  when  we  doubt. 


From  yonder  pure  celestial  height 
Flooding  our  path  a  wondrous  light 
Pours  on  us;  and  where'er  we  go. 
This  haunting  shadow  of  ourselves  we  throw. 


^)  99  (^ 

So  be  it :  if  along  the  track 
On  Sorrow  still  we  turn  our  back. 
We  too  may  climb  to  that  high  doom 
With  light  before  us  and  behind  the  gloom. 


')   100  ('* 


LXXVII 

Fear  troubles  pleasure  lest  it  sap  our  health  j 
Fear  marreth  beauty  for  the  hideous  stealth 

Of  love  ;  fear  prophesies  to  pride  her  fall; 
Fear    palsies    strength,    and    warns    the    loss    of 
wealth. 


Fear  poisons  learning  for  another's  fame ; 

Fear  haunts  the  flesh  with  dissolution's  shame; 
Fear  is  to  live ;  —  save  when  the  soul  with- 
drawn 

Looks   out  and  laughs  at  the  world's  care  and 
claim. 


^)  lOI  (•* 


LXXVIII 

All  dearest  things  forsake  us :  —  wealth  is  sped 
To-day,  or  yet  to-morrow  love  lies  dead, 

Or  hope  fades  in  a  year. 
Poor  fools !   what  matter  when  they  go  or  how  ? 
Poor  fools  !   that  cling  and  will  not  leave  them 
now, 

Adding  to  loss  a  fear. 
For    if   themselves    they   part   what    pangs  they 

leave  ! 
Nay,  fling  them  forth,  and  the  soul's  peace  receive. 

Eternal  now  and  here. 


^)   102  {-■ 


LXXIX 

Life  like  the  billow  rolls,  and  youthful  bloom 

Finds  in  a  day  its  doom; 

Wealth  fleeter  is  than  fancy ;  pleasure's  lash 

Is  but  the  lightning  flash  ; 

And  these  dear  arms  that  hold  our  neck,  beguile 

Ah,  but  a  little  while  :  — 

Rest  then  the  heart  in  Brahma  till  we  cross 

This  sea  of  being  where  all  errors  toss. 


.)  103  (" 


LXXX 

Like  an  uneasy  fool  thou  wanderest  far 
Into  the  nether  deeps, 
Or  upward  climbest  where  the  dim-lit  star 
Of  utmost  heaven  sleeps. 


Through  all  the  world  thou  rangest,  O  my  soul, 
Seeking  and  wilt  not  rest ; 
Behold,  the  peace  of  Brahma,  and  thy  goal, 
Hideth  in  thine  own  breast. 


-)  104  (■*■ 


LXXXI 

Idle  thy  wanderings,  O  my  Heart !  and  all 
Thy  labor  vainly  spent ; 
By  weight  of  inner  destiny  doth  befall 
Or  faileth  each  event. 


Bear  not  the  burthen  of  a  world  outworn, 
Nor  to  the  future  bow ; 
With  every  hour  thy  joy  be  newly  born, 
And  earth  be  new-created  every  morn,  — 
Thy  life  is  here  and  now. 


-».)  105  (' 


LXXXII 

No  longer  in  this  haunted  jungle  roam 
With  way-worn  stumbling  feet ; 
Seek  now  the  safer  path  that  leadeth  home, 
Turn  to  thy  last  retreat. 


Rest  in  the  World's  still  heart ;  thy  little  cares 
Like  wind-rocked  billows  roll, 
And  all  thy  pleasure  as  the  light  wind  fares ;  — 
Now  give  thee  peace,  my  soul ! 


■')  Io6  (•; 


LXXXIII 

Of  old  fair  Learning  served  the  wise  to  ward 

Time's  grieving  from  the  heart ; 

Then  to  the  worldly  bowed  her  to  afford 

The  charms  of  sensual  art ; 

Now  each  new  lordling  of  an  ill-got  field 

Disdains  her ;  she  must  yield, 

And  deeper  hides  and  farther  draws  apart. 


-»•)  1 07  {'■ 


LXXXIV 

Say  not  the  words,  "  'T  is  I  !   't  is  mine  ! 

They  are  the  fatal  seed 

Of  future  lives  upspringing  like  a  weed. 


Say  rather,  "  'Tis  not  I  !  not  mine  !  " 
New  life  from  old  desire 

Still  flames,  —  withhold  the  fuel,  and  where  's  the 
fire? 

W 


u)    1 08  (•= 


LXXXV 

Before  that  peaceful  Light  whose  form  sublime 
Is  purest  thought  uncurbed  of  space  or  time, 
Before  that  Light  I  bow,  whose  deathless  source 
Is  self-communing  force. 


:.)  109  ('* 


LXXXVI 

Within  this  body  side  by  side 
Death  and  eternity  abide ; 
And  death  from  error  grows,  but  life 
The  spirit  wrings  from  truth  with  hourly  strife. 


')  no  (•*' 


LXXXVII 

The  Seer  enlightened  lays  apart 
Follies  that  dizzy  the  child  heart, 
And  upward  turns  his  steps  to  climb 
The   terraced  heights  of  Wisdom.     There  sub- 
lime 


He  stands  and  unperturbed  looks  down 
Upon  the  far-ofF  swarming  town, 
Sees  the  bent  farmers  till  the  soil 
Like  burrowing  ants,  and  wonders  at  their  toil. 


')  "I  {'' 


LXXXVIII 

One  boasted  :  "  Lo,  the  earth  my  bed. 
This  arm  a  pillow  for  my  head, 
The  moon  my  lantern,  and  the  sky 
Stretched  o'er  me  like  a  purple  canopy. 


"  No  slave-girls  have  I,  but  all  night 
The  four  vi^inds  fan  my  slumbers  light."  — 
And  I  astonished  :  Like  a  lord 
This    beggar    sleeps ;  v^hat    more    could    wealth 
afford  ? 


-)   112  (p 


LXXXIX 

Are  there  no  caverns  in  the  mountains  left  ? 
Are  all  the  forest  boughs  of  leaves  bereft 
And  mellowing  fruit  ?   are  the  wild  cataracts  still 
On  every  lonely  hill  ? 


Why  haunt  the  servile  press  ?  or  cringe  and  bow 
To  win  the  nod  of  some  majestic  brow 
That  wears  for  honor  the  low  insolence 
Of  wealth  — how  got  and  whence  ? 


0  "sO 


xc 


Of  old  they  say  this  holy  Ganga  stream 
Rolled  in  the  heavenly   fields  her  crystal  dream, 
And  thence  by  prayer  of  saintly  men  was  led 
To  pour  on  ^iva's  head. 


Awhile  within  the  great  god's  matted  locks 
She  wandered,  till  the  high  Himalayan  rocks 
Received  her  thunderous  fall ;  forever  thence 
Seaward  she  rolls  immense. 


0  ihO 


XCI 

O  World!   I  faint  in  this  thy  multitude 
Of  little  things  and  their  relentless  feud  ; 
No  meaning  have  I  found  through  all  my  days 
In  their  fantastic  maze. 


O  World !  still  through  the  hours  of  blissful  night 
The  widowed  moon  her  benison  of  light 
Outpoureth,  where  the  sacred  river  seems 
From  heaven  to  bear  sweet  dreams. 


How  soon,  O  World !  beside  the  Ganga  shore 
Through  the  long  silent  night  shall  I  implore 
The  mystic  name  ?  how  soon  in  Ganga's  wave 
My  sin-stained  body  lave  ? 


*)  115  0 


XCII 

Is  there  no  pleasure  in  these  palace  halls, 
Where  love  invites  and  music  ever  calls  ? 
No  pleasure,  when  the  revelers  troop  away. 
If  one,  the  loveliest,  stay  ? 


Yet  have  the  prudent  weighed  the  world  as  froth; 
Lo,  as  a  candle-flame  by  wing  of  moth 
Is  fluttered,  so  they  count  its  fickle  mood; 
They  turn  to  solitude. 


')  1 16  (■* 


XCIII 

Dear  Heart,  I  go  a  journey,  yet  before 
Would  speak  this  counsel,  for  I  come  no  more 
One  love  our  life  had,  yet  a  greater  still 
The  Spirit  must  fulfill. 


Not  now  the  wife  is  dear  for  love  of  wife, 
But  for  the  Self;  and  this  our  golden  life 
For  life  no  more  we  treasure,  it  is  dear 
For  that  the  Self  dwells  here. 


And  this  beguiling  world,  the  starry  dome 
Of  purple  and  the  gods  who  call  it  home, 
Man,  beast,  and   flowers  that  blow  and  blowing 
perish. 
Not  for  themselves  we  cherish. 


'^)  117  (•*« 

But  for  the  Self.     And  this  is  love,  and  they 
Who  look  for  other  on  the  lonely  way 
Are  still  forsaken.  — Tremble  not,  dear  Heart ! 
Love  stays  though  I  depart. 


^)  ii8  ("• 


XCIV 

Courage,  my  Soul  !  now  to  the  silent  wood 
Alone  we  wander,  there  to  seek  our  food 
In  the  wild  fruits,  and  woo  our  dreamless  sleep 
On  soft  boughs  gathered  deep. 


There  loud  authority  in  folly  bold, 
And  tongues  that  stammer  with  disease  of  gold, 
And  murmur  of  the  windy  world  shall  cease, 
Nor  echo  through  our  peace. 


')  119  {'■ 


xcv 

These  trodden  lands  are  everywhere  the  haunt 
Of  wilder  tribes  than  any  crime  may  daunt  j 
And  haply  some  malignant  poison-barb 
May  pierce  thy  plumed  garb. 


O  silly  parrot,  in  the  secret  boughs 
Where  peril  may  not  find  thee,  make  thy  house: 
Come,  cease  thy  prattle,  seal  thy  mouth  at  length, 
Silence  is  all  thy  strength. 


^)   120  (•' 


XCVI 

Who  is  the  Brahmin  ?  —  Not  the  mother's  womb 
Declares  him,  nor  the  robes  that  all  assume  ; 
But  the  true  heart  that  never  greed  beguiles, 
Nor  turbid  lust  defiles. 


Who  is  the  Brahmin?  —  He  who  trembleth  not 
When  snaps  the  cord  that  bound  to  human  lot, 
Who  losing  all  is  glad,  whose  peace  is  known 
Unto  himself  alone. 


')    121    (•! 


XCVII 

How  slow  to  him  who  haunts  preferment's  door 
The  long  days  drag!   how  lightly  hurry  o'er, 
When  the  awakened  soul  hath  thrown  aside 
Its  load  of  worldly  pride  ! 


So,  lying  near  my  cavern's  rocky  ledge, 
I'd  dream  at  ease  upon  the  mountain  edge; 
And  laugh  a  little  in  my  heart,  and  then 
Plunge  into  thought  again. 


')    122  ('■ 


XCVIII 

Fire  is  the  Brahmin's  godj  the  seer 
Knows  in  his  heart  the  godhead  near ; 
Fools  have  their  idol  ;   but  the  clear 
Untroubled  vision  sees  him  there  and  here. 


')  123  0 


XCIX 

Through  many  births,  a  ceaseless  round, 
I  ran  in  vain,  nor  ever  found 
The  Builder,  though  the  house  I  saw,  — 
For  death  is  born  again,  and  hard  the  law. 


O  Builder,  thou  art  seen  !   not  so 
Again  thy  building  shall  arise; 
Broken  are  all  its  rafters,  low 
The  turret  of  the  mansion  lies : 
The  mind  in  all-dissolving  peace 
Hath  sunk,  and  out  of  craving  found  release. 


=.)  124  {'■ 


O  mother  earth !   O  father  air !   O  light, 
My  friend !   O  kindred  water !   and  thou  height 
Of  skies,  my  brother!  —  crying  unto  you, 
Crying,  I  plead  adieu. 


Well  have  I  wrought  among  you,  —  now  the  day 
Of  Wisdom  dawning  strikes  old  Error's  sway, 
And  the  light  breaks,  and  the  long-waiting  soul 
Greeteth  her  blissful  goal. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
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tiivii 


i  X 


OCT  3 1^968 


lOm-ll, '50(2555)470 


^.^?_CAUFOR^ 


«t 


PN 
6237 


•  cni  iTuCDM  Dcr^inMfii    i  iddapv  capm  iTy 


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6  397    8 


